


You Just Put Your Lips Together

by leyley09



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Penalty Box Shenanigans, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-28 10:34:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14447463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leyley09/pseuds/leyley09
Summary: Tom's got this thing he'd like to try.





	You Just Put Your Lips Together

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChelseaIBelieve](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChelseaIBelieve/gifts).



> You handle your playoff stress your way; this is how I handled mine.
> 
>  
> 
> Happy early graduation to my dear friend ChelseaIBelieve! I'm so proud of you pulling off school and "work" and life for the last couple years. Looking forward to you having a few minutes of free time so I have something fabulous to beta. :D <3

It’s cold at ice level.

Mike feels stupid thinking that, but generally when he’s on the ice, there are a shit-ton of lights on and he’s in his full gear, with pre-game adrenaline heating him up.

It’s not a game night tonight; it’s one of the very rare nights when there’s nothing going on at the Verizon Center. There are only a handful of lights on -- the security lights that never go off. Standing on the bench in street clothes, he can already feel the chill creeping into the end of his nose.

“Tommy, what are we doing in here at eleven thirty at night?”

“There’s something I want to try.” Tom is a block of warmth behind him, so close they’re almost touching. The temperature difference is very noticeable.

“It couldn’t wait until the next time we practice here?”

Tom snorts. “Not something I want to try with an audience.” He reaches around and unlatches the bench door. “C’mon.”

He nudges at Mike with knuckles in his kidney until he steps out onto the ice. Mike’s not a fan of being out here in his street shoes, but he’s pretty sure Tom isn’t going to let him fall. 

They slip-slide across the sheet, Tom directing with his hands on Mike’s hips. They’re halfway across before Mike figures out where they’re going.

“The box, Tom, really? Don’t we spend enough time in here?”

“Probably, but I had something a little bit different than usual in mind.” He pops the button on the boards to open the door, pushing it wide for Mike to step through and manhandling him around until he’s sitting on the bench. 

Mike wiggles around until he’s as comfortable as he’s going to get and watches Tom fidget against the door. He’s asked what they’re doing twice in the last five minutes - and several more times since Tom made a left turn instead of a right on their way home from the movies. He’s not asking again.

While he waits for Tom to get to the point, he looks around the arena, dark and shadowy, echoing with silence. It’s completely opposite of how he normally sees it. Tom is also behaving completely the opposite of normal. Tom talks a million miles an hour (at least after he wakes up all the way). He’s very, very rarely this…..nervous is the only word Mike can think of.

“Okay,” Tom finally blurts out. “Somebody on Twitter sent me this gif last week, of you sitting here. And you’re, like, breathing hard and sweaty…” he trails off with a vague gesture at Mike.

Mike just raises one eyebrow at him. That sounds like every single time he’s ever been in the box. Including all the times he’s been there with Tom. There’s nothing noteworthy about that at all.

“And it had this caption about if you look like that during a blow job.”

That calls for two raised eyebrows.

“It’s not, really, not exactly, but the idea kind of got stuck in my head, so I thought maybe we could try it and get it out of my system.” He stops talking more abruptly than Mike was expecting, leaving only this idea to echo around his head.

  
  


This is a public place. Theoretically, there won’t be anyone wandering out here at this hour, but he’s pretty sure there are security cameras.

In addition, this is where they  _ work _ . They have a game here in two days, and it’s pretty likely he’s going to be sitting right here at some point during that game.

Letting Tom blow him in here is the kind of bad idea that they would give Nobel Prizes for, if they gave those for bad ideas.

 

 

But then Tom gets down on his knees and pouts. “Please, Mikey.”

  
  
  


Jesus fuck.

  
  
  


Some day, he’s going to learn how to say “no” to all of that.

“Fine. But--” he talks louder to drown out Tom’s cheer “--this is a one time thing.”

Tom nods along to all of that, but it’s pretty obvious he’s not paying attention. He’s already tugging and pushing at Mike to reach the button on his jeans.

In the few minutes they’ve been in here, he’s apparently acclimated to the temperature. He is made aware of this very quickly as he helps Tom slide his jeans down around his knees. The cold is a shock, but there isn’t time for it to become truly unpleasant before Tom’s got his mouth around his dick.

He’s nowhere near as excited about this idea as Tom sounded, but Tom’s mouth is doing a fine job making him forget that. He’s not sucking  _ per se _ , just letting the warmth and wetness get Mike hard while his stupidly huge hands keep his thighs warm.

Mike tips his head back against the glass and closes his eyes.

Maybe Tom’s not completely crazy. He knows the only other people in the building are a couple of security guards, and the odds of either of them coming in here are slim - especially since Tom talked to them earlier.

They probably won’t - but they could.

He’s not any kind of exhibitionist, usually, but the risk factor  _ is _ kind of hot.

Tom gets his full attention back when he pulls off, replacing his mouth with his hand. “Sometimes, I wish I could do this during a game, in front of everybody - the team, the crowd, the TV cameras.”

Fuck it, he’s going to  _ talk _ .

“You look so good like this, even better than that gif, and I kind of want to brag to everyone that you’re mine.”

“I think...the team...knows.” 

Tom’s chuckle is leaning towards evil. “Yeah, some of them do. Some of them suspect. But they’d  _ all _ be jealous if they could see you right now.”

If Mike could breathe right, he’d snort at that.

Tom knows him too well, though. “Okay, sure, they’re maybe not dying to jump you specifically, but they’d be jealous that I have someone who reacts so well.” He leans in to exhale over the damp head of Mike’s dick, smirking at Mike’s shiver. “Someone who falls apart so pretty.” He stares at Mike for a few seconds, licking his lips when he sees Mike watching. “Someone who wants me so much.”

That last part’s true, at least.

“They’d be jealous of how you twitch every time I touch you” as he slides his hand ever-so-leisurely down and back up. “How you gasp every time I lick you” before there’s a wet strip on Mike’s thigh. “How you forget to breathe when I finally get you in my mouth.”

Mike does remember to breathe when Tom pinches the swell of muscle just above his hip. He sucks in air like it’s a disappearing commodity. Tom sinks a little deeper, sucks a little harder. The crack of Mike’s foot colliding with the boards reverberating through the empty space.

Tom starts laughing before he’s pulled off all the way; Mike swears he feels the vibrations in his teeth.

“Careful, babe. I’m not explaining a broken foot to Smitty.”

Mike struggles to focus on anything besides the conflicting sensations of warm/wet and cold/wet as Tom moves his hand. It takes several more seconds than it should before he can concentrate enough to kick Tom in the shin. It’s not a particularly hard kick, but it gets his point across. Tom giggles and gets back to work.

He leans his head against the glass, twisting a little to rest his temple against the chilled surface. Sweat trickles down the back of his neck, collects along his upper lip, dampens the back of his t-shirt. Parts of him are overheated; parts of him are freezing.

All of that is peripheral to the perfect push/pull of suction that Tom is much too good at. He’s dragging it out, and Mike may actually die right here.

  
  


And then Tom stops  _ again _ .

 

Mike makes a noise reminiscent of an angry walrus.

“The only way this could be hotter,” Tom says too casually, “is if you were wearing your jersey.”

Mike blinks at him two, three, eight times. “What?”

He’s not sure if Tom is blushing, turned on, or cold, but he is very pink in the face as he mumbles something into Mike’s leg before biting his inner thigh.

Mike pulls his hair in retaliation. “I’m sorry, what?”

Tom is definitely blushing. “I like you in our logo,” he says with a one-shoulder shrug. “It’s a symbol of everything that brought you to me.”

“That,” Mike says, still breathless, “is the most ridiculous thing you have ever said to me, including that thing about the Rocky Mountains being rockier.”

Tom frowns at the floor.

“That doesn’t mean I don’t like it. I’d just like it a lot better if I weren’t sitting here in the cold with my dick out.”

Tom’s smile goes filthy. “That’s fair.”

Everything gets sort of fuzzy after that.

His complaint about the cold was mostly bluster. Tom’s hands are huge and warm, and he uses them to his advantage. Mike’s maybe not as close as he was a couple minutes ago, but he’s not far off either. 

Tom is a competitive son of a bitch, and he decided fairly early on in their relationship that he was going to be the best Mike had ever had. Tonight, he’s putting on a masterclass in “how to give Michael Latta an orgasm.” Pressure, suction, rhythm, rough calluses, ragged fingernails. In the darkness, in the silence, there’s nothing to distract him from the sight, from the sounds, from the  _ feel _ of Tom on his knees in their penalty box -- Tom, whose big fantasy is spectacularly one-sided.

Whatever bits of self consciousness he had left drift away. Tom likes it when he makes noise, when he reacts. And if Tom wants him falling apart on this bench, then that’s what Tom is going to get.

He stops trying (and failing) to muffle his noises or control his breathing. He begs, he pleads, he actually shouts when Tom digs his nails in and scratches. In return, he grabs at whatever part of Tom he can focus on. It’s good that Tom doesn’t mind having his hair pulled.

It’s been five minutes, it’s been an hour, it’s been a month -- he’s lost track. But if Tom stops again, doesn’t let him come, he will  _ actually _ cry.

  
  


Orgasm doesn’t sneak up on him. It runs him over with a cement truck.

  
  


He gets an eye open eventually. The first thing he can focus on is the condensation on the glass. That’s a little embarrassing.

The next sense to check in is touch, unsurprisingly. Particularly when what he’s sensing is Tom sucking on his fingers. This kid is really trying to kill him. 

Tom is still on his knees, slumped against his leg, mouth full of fingers now. If Mike had to guess, those fingers were in Tom’s hair a few minutes ago, dislodged either by Tom moving or Mike losing his grip. It’s an attractive picture, which may be why it takes a while for him to realize he can’t see Tom’s hands. And then to figure out why.

“Hey,” he sort-of says. Jesus, how loud was he being?

There’s no reaction from Tom, so he twitches the fingers in Tom’s mouth instead of repeating himself. That gets him a brief glimpse of blue under Tom’s stupid lashes.

“I wanna--” is all he gets out before Tom bites down on his fingers and goes even more boneless.

  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Tom has to be helped up from the floor since he’s gone numb below the knees. There will probably be very obvious bruises. (Mike can already see the “seriously boys” face they’re going to get from Backy.)

Mike’s fingers hurt from squeezing too hard, and there are distinct teeth marks on three of them. Creeping back through the dressing room, he can feel at least two more spots with matching marks.

Tom keeps rubbing absent-mindedly at the hinge of his jaw.

It is driving him crazy.

Not crazy enough to say anything and delay their escape, but definitely crazy. 

Outside, Tom’s back to his usual chatterbox self, debating the idea of a late-night fast food run while Mike unlocks the car.

“Hey,” he interrupts the debate between Wendy’s and Taco Bell, “we are  _ never _ doing that again, but...it was pretty hot.”

“Right?!” Tom grins, wide and pleased. “I have the best ideas.”

Mike grins back and shakes his head.

They’ll see how Tom feels about his ideas after morning skate.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you aren't familiar with this particular gif of Mike, please let me know and I will share it with you. (If I'd planned a little better in advance, I'd have something linked, but that's how my life goes.)
> 
> Title from the song "Whistle" by Flo Rida - if you came into this not expecting a cheesy song lyric title from me, you must be new. Welcome! This is what I do. :D


End file.
